Unforgiven has come to be considered the peak of Clint Eastwood's art. He produced, directed and co-starred in the picture, winning Oscars in the first two of those classes. It's underlying tone is bleak (as befits its title, no one is cast in a pure light) but there is a lightness of touch at work and it nicely casts aside and then stunningly rejuvenates Eastwood's Man with No Name persona. In the end all is unforgiven. An important film and an enjoyable one. 86/100.
Door 24 on the calendar. It's an arresting piece of country music, the track that won the Oscar for Best Song. Robert Altman's Nashville is an undervalued bit of cinematic genius and this song is delivered by Keith Carradine in one of the screen's great ironic scenes. I won't try to explain it - watch the film for yourself. So here it is, the latest entry into the pantheon of Doors 24 - I'm Easy.
I hope you've enjoyed the trawl through my musical mind. Not inspiring I suspect, possibly even hard core bland out. But maybe there has been something that has sent you back to your own stereo. Happy Christmas and may your God go with you.
Only one day to go calendar wise. DN1 and DN2 will be with us by the end of today. As Noddy so wisely bellowed, IT'S CHRISTMAS.
Castles in the Air by Don McLean is a poetic lament against city life, a cousin, if you will to my favourite Elton John track, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Castles in the Air is from McLean's first album, Tapestry but made perhaps its greater impact as the B side to the later Vincent. Hauntingly good.
Now this, I believe, is what those of us who are down with the kids might call a chooon. Possibly a banger. Hell, I don't know, I'm hardly down with my own kids, let alone anybody else's. No matter, this track explains to me why people like electro and why loud dance music has its uses. Chemical Brothers - Hey Boy Hey Girl.
There is a strong Eagles thread running through much of the music I find attractive. Yesterday's Poco track is a good example, Timothy B. Schmit having been a member of both bands. Schmit crops up again today, singing backing on Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band's Fire Lake. Don Henley and Glenn Frey, Eagles both, are also on the track. I rediscovered it recently.
I have the vinyl of the album (Against the Wind) from which the track is taken. I remember I got it from the bargain bin at, I think, Boots for 50p. Nice.
I'm a sucker for a bit of country rock and when you listen to an Eagles inspired playlist on Spotify, it won't be long before a Poco track turns up. This my idea of their most memorable song - Rose of Cimarron. Oddly enough, only a couple of days after I had discovered this song, I was out running and some workmen were up a scaffold in Dunton Close, radio blaring out, and this was the track being played. More serendipity.
White Christmas may not be (as any film bore/geek like OG will tell you) the film in which the title song makes its first appearance (that would be Holiday Inn) but it has undoubtedly become part of the Christmas furniture. Danny Kaye may only have been third choice to star alongside Bing Crosby but the producers got lucky - his sort of clowning is a nice counterpoint to Crosby's elegant langour.
Sing Choirs of Angels, an installation by Illuminos at Lichfield Cathedral. Now I have to confess that I hadn't been to the cathedral for decades, notwithstanding that it is practically on our doorstep. It is magnificent at any time but when lit up to relate the gospel it is captivating. A great evening adventure in the company of the Groupie and DN1. We even found free parking. Result.
The week leading up to Christmas. Today it's festive hats and jumpers on the links of Royal Pype Hayes and then drinking with the golf lads at the Bishop Vesey in the evening. It's a hard life but someone's got to do it.
So here we have a real party banger. Some may prefer Love Shack, but for me Roam sees the B52s at their joyous best.
No list is complete (apparently) without some 80s alternative rock, whatever that means. Here is a top song, Shine On by House of Love. This is the third day in a row that has thrown up music to drive to. Or indeed music to draft a thesis to. Never end a sentence with a preposition. Certainly never end two in a row. One week to Christmas.
More glorious noise. Bearing probably the best band name of all time, Pop Will Eat Itself are a riotous alternative rock band with left wing tendencies. Which you might think makes them an odd choice for this reactionary old blogger. Not a bit of it. Nearly thirty years old and still relevant today, this is the brilliant Ich Bin Ein Auslander.
Forget the love songs; crank the volume up to 11. This is one I play very loud when driving the Precious Jag, preferably while wearing the Precious Oakleys. Mid life crisis? Hell no, I'm older than that. More like an old age crisis.
From 1985 The Cult with She Sells Sanctuary. More noise tomorrow.
We had a soppy song yesterday and today we have another one. Don't worry, things will get more raucous later. Yesterday's video was from Top of the Pops. Today's live rendition of Just the Way You Are by Billy Joel is from the cooler pillar of seventies music, The Old Grey Whistle Test. This is an unashamed love song and I enthusiastically dedicate it to the Groupie who has taken me just the way I am. For my part, loving her has been easy - she is perfect.
This is beautiful. Listen to it and I defy you not to have it meandering around your head for the rest of the day. It is the title song from Kiki Dee's 1973 album Loving and Free. She wrote the song; Elton John played keyboards on the album and co-produced it. The single was not released until 1976. It reached No. 13. Deserved better. For those of a certain innocent age, here is her Top of the Pops performance.
Christmas is the time when you get lots of repeats on the television, most particularly in this age of so many channels. After all what is wrong with a continuous loop of The Two Ronnies? Actually not much - ed.
As I write this I realise that this has been a strong list for guitar heroes - you have my nomination of John Williams and yesterday we had guitar work from Clapton. Well here's another contender - in a mesmerising live performance, Richard Thompson (founder member of Fairport Convention) gives us his brilliant 1952 Vincent Black Lightning.
Opera - I've tried hard but I'm afraid I can take it or leave it. But ballet, that's a different kettle of cultural fish. I Find myself left in envious admiration of the sheer athleticism.
So, with the Groupie and OG's aged mother to see the Birmingham Royal Ballet Nutcracker. The taxi journey into Birmingham was trouble-free (I'm a great one for worrying that something will go wrong with any plan I make) and left time aplenty for a pre-performance glass of overpriced, but passable, malbec. As things transpired the journey home was mildly blighted by the traffic in Birmingham's unruly city centre, but it was far too late in the day to cause any upset - it perhaps even added a frisson of local authenticity.
So all in all a success and, I'll say this as well for The Nutcracker - it doesn't half put you in the mood for Christmas. As if my advent calendar wasn't enough to do that anyway.
You live and learn. Apparently the lead guitar on this track is Eric Clapton. Apologies for the less than woke video - it was the eighties after all. The album on which it appeared had an equally dodgy cover.
From his first solo album this is 5.01 am (the Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking by Roger Waters. A far cry from yesterday's offering from Townes Van Zandt, but hey ho, viva eclecticism.
My original plan had been to play around with that list of Liked Songs on my Spotify page, but then I thought I spied some intellectual integrity in spinning through the list in the order in which I saved the songs. The integrity thing is bollocks of course, bit I'm sticking with it. Thus on the eleventh day we have my favourite discovery of the year, the song that would otherwise have earned the coveted spot behind door twenty-four.
Townes Van Zandt sings his haunting composition Waitin' Around to Die. This one's for depressives everywhere. You are not alone.
One has to have a guitar hero. I tried to learn the guitar and failed. However my brief foray into the world of classical guitar confirmed me in the conviction that John Williams is the man. Here, on the Val Doonican Show of all things, is Williams playing Cavatina, best known as the theme tune for The Deer Hunter, though in fact it was written a decade before that film and had even made an earlier screen appearance in the forgotten movie The Walking Stick.
A bit of high-class crooning today. You can keep Sinatra, Bennett et al, if I have to listen to one crooner it will be Andy Williams. And here we have Nino Rota's Love Theme from The Godfather (I don't need to tell you again how good those films are) with a lyric bolted onto it for Williams to do his damnedest. Speak Softly Love.
I know where this one comes from. If you start a deep-dive into Belle and Sebastian (and on that score I refer you back to my introduction of this year's calendar) Spotify forms the strong opinion that you will like Richard Hawley. It is mildly alrming that an algorithm can be so spot on. Tonight the Streets Are Ours.
The trees are up (yes we have two - so bourgeois) and the lights are shining. Thus I can start my festive diet of things cinematic.
He's not even the most famous musician from Stourport-on-Severn (that would be Ray Thomas from my beloved Moody Blues) but Clifford T. Ward was responsible for this nicely soppy song, Home Thoughts from Abroad. Ward had a dodgy haircut (a lot of us did in the seventies) but anecdote has it that he was good at his day job as an English teacher so I thnk we will forgive him that.
You've got to have a bit of corn in there. This song is uber-corny (or should that be tres corny). This is Charles Aznavour's rendition of She. A song made fashionable again by the use of the Elvis Costello version in the film Notting Hill - which, by the way, is, in the opinion of this critic, better than its close cousin Four Weddings and a Funeral. Just saying.
I think I must have been channelling my Andy Williams vibe when this track came up. That's the way it works - I always have music playing when I am working and if something really grabs me I add it to my 'Liked' list.
Sierra by Boz Scaggs. This is a seriously haunting piece of music. I came across it when exploring Spotify for tracks suggested by a liking for Ry Cooder. Not sure the link makes any sense other than in my untutored manner - perhaps it's even the similarity of their names (that probably doesn't make any sense either) but what I do know is that my great mate Big Willy, who strums a mean guitar himself, approves of both.
Joan Baez has a voice of crystal clarity. Perhaps most famed as an interpreter of others' songs, this is one of her own compositions. Some commentators liked to imagine that Diamonds and Rust was a bit of a swipe at her former lover, Bob Dylan. Baez has always denied that. Why let the facts stand in the way of a good story. A rather beautiful noise.
Hey man you're sooo avant-garde. Dude I know. I even liked the Velvet Underground before they were acclaimed. This last boast is a false one - I'm not quite that old. Rock and Roll. Enjoy.
And now for a bit of prog-rock. Manfred Mann's Earth Band should not be confused with 60s pop band, Manfred Mann, though their common inheritance is the keyboard skill of Manfred Mann himself.
Enough of that. I can't quite remember what got me listening to this track once again (I usually put these things down to Spotify serendipity and I do listen to a lot of prog-rock - it's an age thing) but here it is, unashamedly riffing on Holst's Planet Suite (Jupiter), Joybringer.
Welcome to December, the month of hope and expectation. Also the month of long nights and generally uncongenial weather. So let's start with something uplifting. It's a cover version so might have found a place in last year's calendar. But it didn't. So deal with it.
In fact it's much covered, the first notable edition being by Mama Cass in 1969. This is Paloma Faith's 2018 rendition of Make Your Own Kind of Music, commissioned for a Skoda advertisement of all things. Written by Barry Mann and Cynthia Well. Nice.
It's that time of year again, the time when educated conversation turns to what OG will do for his advent calendar this time. Well, the answer I'm afraid is that he will shamelessly purloin the idea that underwrote the complilation CD he used to receive each Christmas from a relative (by marriage) who no longer enjoys that status. It was from one such CD that OG's liking for Belle and Sebastian was born. Oh well.
I'm pretty sure that Spotify is not great for recording artists whilst being brilliant for those consumers who like to listen to all sorts of music. I keep a 'Liked' list that comprises all the songs I have serially obsessed over. Generally the obsession passes but I like to have the reminder of those obsessions. And that list is the key to this year's calendar. I give you twenty-four ear-worms that have helped OG through 2022.
Alexei Sayle is back doing stand-up, or at the very least he has launched his Imaginary Sandwich Bar for the delectation of radio listeners. This is decidedly good news. Sayle has more wit in his little finger than many of the self-loving modern stand-ups put together. Sayle and I stand at opposite poles of the political world (I exclude the lunatic fringe right from my analysis) but I have always had an admiration for sane socialism. And he never forgets the underpinning rule of comedy - it's supposed to be funny.
A far cry from comedy (well, on reconsideration, probably not) is the state of British politics - tragi-comedy perhaps, that difficult bastard child. Much of the time I give way to the counsel of despair and just roll my eyes sagaciously when politics intrudes into my life. Well, what would you know - I turned on the television to watch the parliamentary debate on the Autumn Statement. I should declare an interest here. For the record, the provisions of the Statement materially and injuriously affect the finances of the life of Pig. I neither expect nor seek any sympathy. What struck me about the debate was that before the infantile shriekers of the back-benchers took their turn, there was the spectacle of adult speeches. No matter what James Naughtie may think of him, I estimate Jeremy Hunt as a serious politician. And lo, I give unto you, his Shadow, Rachel Reeves. Another adult and one not tainted by service in the joke Corbyn Shadow Cabinet. Unlike, of course, her pudding-brained leader, the pathologically useless Keir Starmer. Sayle's show included his slam poetry offering - I Hate Keir Starmer. Quite.
I am blocked. As in, I can't find any inspiration to write. This despite a whole world turning about me.
Bluntly the shithole of modern life is beyond parody/satire, call it what you will. Rishi Sunak becomes Prime Minister and within a matter of days has to accept the resignation of Gavin Williamson who, it seems, is a graduate of the Prince Andrew school of charm. Inflation (us oldies can tell you youngsters a few tales of how destuctive it is) is poised to go full Tonto. That arch-bastard Trump seems to be on the point of declaring that he will run for President again. I suppose, on the bright side, his candidacy will give me something to write about. He would be funny if he wasn't so very real.
But then I stop and ask myself, a manic depressive, how I feel in myself. Well, there's the rub. I feel great. I have my family. I have my friends. Perhaps it is a fact that, just as I write my best poetry when depressed, so my pen is only barbed (or so I hope) when I'm at my worst.
I feel great, so don't expect any shafts of wit any time soon. Incidentally, not that you could care less, I had successive birdies when I played golf on Monday. Not flukes either - good drive, accurate approach, shortish putt. Sometimes, just sometimes, things look good. And for no reason other than that I like it here is a Kandinsky print. See ya.
Many years ago I compiled a list of my fifty favourite films. Much water has flowed under the bridge since then but if you have been with me on this journey (the blog I mean) you will have got a flavour of it, most particularly from my Advent calendar a while back.
It is a film about the after-effects of war, about the toll not only on the combatants but on the families they return to. Yes it is melodramatic but there is a moral seriousness underscoring it. There is a scene when the Dana Andrews character punches an America-firster into a shop display case that has modern resonance. Great. Just. 88/100.
Just back from a long weekend with former rugby playing mates in Valencia. The ostensible reason for the trip was to mark BH's sixtieth birthday. Great fun. Once were warriors.
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| what a place to do your shopping |
Another reason to be cheerful? Well, perhaps not cheerful exactly but certainy full of admiration. George C. Scott famously turned down his Oscar nomination for his performance in Patton, describing the Oscar ceremony as no more than a meat market. The Academy ignored his refusal and awarded him the prize anyway. Meat market or not, they were right. His portrayal of this gigantic but troubling military hero is breathtaking. Another notable aspect of the film is that it brought a first Oscar for another hero of mine, Francis Ford Coppola for his work on the screenplay. It's one of those films that crops up on obscure channels at Christmas - I note that my recording of it was made on 30th December last year. 80/100. It'll soon be Christmas!
You couldn't make this shit up. Liz Truss (who she ed?) lasted forty-five days as prime minister. Forty-five f***ing days. I haven't even had time to write one of my famous blogs commenting on her performance. In all seriousness, an earnest young man of my acquaintance asked me a couple of weeks ago whether she was already the worst PM in my memory. I said the jury was out. Shows what I know. Come back James Callaghan, all is forgiven.
But it lurches from low comedy to plain farce. Now that immoral grifter (can you have a moral grifter?) Boris Johnson is being seriously talked of as returning to office. Spare me please. My dear old Dad once said to me that for him all elections were single issue elections - the issue was education. I am going to follow his line. God, I despise these venal bastards.
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| no magic cure |
This particular old wild man hadn't been to a gig for a while. Actually I say that but we did see Maddy Prior last Christmas and before that it must have been Muse at the NIA. Anyway last night was my covid-delayed sixtieth birthday gift from my sister - what you might term arthritic rock - 10cc at the De Montfort Hall in Lecester. Proper venue, proper band.
OG/BFP has been silent for too long. Sorry about that, those few of you out there who might have noticed, and, I suppose, more pertinently the few of those who give a stuff.
Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? I went down to London to visit the queen. Which is exactly, well nearly, what OG, the Groupie, and DN1 did. We queued for twelve hours to pay our respects to our late monarch. Cold logic fails to explain why I felt compelled to attend the lying in state, but (and I'm sorry if this disappoints some of you) it is something I needed to do. I had always promised myself that when Queen Elizabeth II passed, I would make my small gesture of gratitude for a job well done. Whether I will ever come to feel the same about Charles III is a question I cannot yet answer. I hope so. A good start will be the ostracising from the working family of Prince Andrew and the freezing out of Harry and his knowing duchess. I bow to no man in my gratitude for their armed service but there are stupidities that cannot be endured.
To happier themes. I, for the first time in a decade, am free from my self-imposed guilt at not getting on with my thesis. It may be a piece of crap but it is my piece of crap and it is finished and submitted. Examination/humiliation by viva voce awaits. We shall speak of this no more - not sure that's a promise I am up to keeping.
So that's it. The boy is back.
No I don't mean that I have been drinking too much Barolo, though I think I probably have. No what I mean is that high art (and indeed low art but that is not my topic today) can raise you quickly out of the slough of despond.
I don't suffer my black dog days nearly so often these days but I am still taking the pills that have been so important a part of my taming of the illness. Just as you are always an alcoholic (I'm not, before you ask), so you are always a manic depressive. I try to be open about it, without boring the pants off people. My name is David R, and I'm a manic depressive.
It is an oddity of personal taste that dictates that for a middling mind like mine, sometimes art of just below the top level is more amenable. It as though the very good stuff is too rich a mixture. Hence I like Titus Andronicus. Hence also, if presssed to nominate my favourite Orson Welles film, I would usually choose Touch of Evil over Kane. But ask me which is the greater artistic achievement and I would unhesitatingly point to Citizen Kane. Watch it, re-watch it. Treat yourself. 98/100.
My old mate Walter Bagehot got a mention from the BBC Political Correspondent the other day. It was in the context of the constitutional mechanisms that have whirred so efficiently into life in the five days since the death of Queen Elizabeth II. You can say what you like about poor old Britain but it is hard not to agree that we do pomp and ceremony rather well. And that, over a century and a half ago, was the point that good old Walter was making. The role of the monarchy is to be dignified and thereby to underwrite the efficient administrative secret that keeps the country on track. Like Bagehot, I am a constitutional monarchist, probably a tad more romantic in my soul than was Bagehot.
And this is the point - Elizabeth understood her Bagehot and played her role steadfastly and well. As the past few days have liberally confirmed, her subjects largely appreciated the work she did and they wish the new King well as he gradutaes from the longest apprenticship in history. There will be some naysayers who will self-indulgently tout their right to dissent and to behave execrably in the face of a funeral. That is indeed their right but they demean their cause.
Anyway, the old rhythms are the best - the Queen is dead, long live the King
It is fast approaching crunch time for my academic efforts. I have therefore been spending an unhealthy amount of time with my non-contemporaneous contemporaries, Messrs Shakespeare and Bagehot. After a decade (very much on and off) of being intimidated by the inadequacy of my word-count, I now find myself six thousand words over the top and I don't want to let any of my precious prose go. I'll get over it.
Having at last delivered a full draft of the thesis on Sunday (with all those offending extra words) I played golf with the lads yesterday evening and had my best round for a year or so. Which was nice. I'm not geting carried away though - I was dependent on an outrageous slice of good fortune on my nemesis hole, the 13th at Royal Pype Hayes. I think that hole owed me mind.
I have (undeservedly but hell, it's my life) granted myself a day away from Shakespeare and Bagehot today. Now such self-rewarding largesse can often be counter-productive as it induces a depressive tendency to guilt. But, lo, today has been fine, more than fine in fact. I went for a run this morning and both troublesome heels were in co-operative mood. Which was nice. Then this afternoon I watched a great film. More of that anon. But first my review of a lesser picture but one I nonetheless recommend.
The Commonwealth Games end today. ICW's daughter H will be in the closing ceremony - she is apparently a Peaky Blinder. I must take the advice of my near neighbour AK and start binge-watching this drama - Peaky Blinders, not the Games.
As for the Games, well I have never harboured any shame about being a Brummie but I am not sure that I have ever been more proud of my hometown than over the week and a half of the Games. We have done a bosting job. For my part I went (as already reported here) to a session of the rugby and last week I went to five sessions of the athletics. What a treat. I was accompanied by a different person on each visit to the Alexander Stadium: my brother WJR on the first day; my mother; DN1; JRS; and finally the Groupie. A good time was had by all. Personal favourites for me were the hammer throw and the decathlon pole vault - not world class performances but spirited and athletes enjoying the roars of a full crowd. Grandpa would have loved it. I've bought the tee shirt - wearing it now as it happens.
I was up early on Friday in the company of ICW. We were making the small hop to Coventry for the opening session of the Commonwealth Games Rugby Sevens. I analysed the organisation at the venue with the expert (take that with a large dose of salt) eye of a 2012 Games Maker. There were teething problems at the venue (the excellent Coventry Stadium) and clearing security took too long, such that despite our early arrival at the venue we missed the first couple of matches. No matter, the volunteers started to find their collective voice and the general atmosphere of bonhomie went undisturbed. I can pay it no better compliment than to say that it put me in mind of London 2012.
ICW was on a Games marathon of his own on Friday. Having spent the morning with me, he was up and in spectating mode once again for the evening session at the swimming. He jovially reports that it was an excellent night, bar having to hear the all-conquering Australian anthem seven times. Oh well.
The Games were just up the road in Sutton Park for three days as the site of the various triathlons. The locals were out in force and rewarded by a lot of English gold medals. For today I am here at my desk but playing golf later with the Monday Night at PH lads. Tomorrow I have the first of five days at the athletics, accompanied on this first day by WJR. This will bring back memories of all the athletics we were privileged to see live as youngsters in the company of our grandfather, W. Harry Hayward, a Vice President of the Amateur Athletic Association. He would have loved all of this on his doorstep. Oh well.
Cerrtainly all of this uplifting sport serves as a welcome distraction from the unlovely spectacle of the Conservative Party tearing itself apart to find a successor to the awful Johnson. I cannot slide a fag-paper between the two candidates in terms of their lack of loveliness. Thankfully I don't have a vote. Never have I felt quite so divorced from my political instincts. Apathy Rules UK? Oh well.
Britain melts in a moment of heat - for the first time we have red weather warnings because of the extreme temperatures. I endured an uncomfortable drive back from Mon this morning because my ageing SUV has knackered air-conditioning. Air conditioning - one of those toys that used to be seen as a luxury but which we can now see as a necessity. The drought of 1976 seems a long time ago. I sat my 'O' levels that summer and we had to wear full school uniform, blazer included. But we were, as Monty Python observed, happy. I bet the exam room was a bit whiffy though - all that adolescent sweat in an age when deodorants were far from ubiquitous.
We have left beautiful Northumberland behind us and are back at Casa Piggy, where, I am delighted to report, all seems to be well. The cats have been collected from the cattery this morning and the Groupie is already hard at work in her transplanted office - because of the heat (it is what we meteorologists term bloody hot) she has moved downstairs to the North facing study. As for the Pig, well I have been to the municipal dump to decant historic garden rubbish and am now looking forward to a game of golf at the Royal Pype Hayes - haven't touched a club since tour three weeks ago. Expectations are low.
Reflections on Northumberland: it is an area that has a magic about it. Judging by the throngs at Bamburgh it is no longer quite right to describe it as an undiscovered secret but there is plenty of scenery to go around and I would recommend it to anyone. The village of Beadnell was a happy accident for us. We had booked relatively late in the day and Bamburgh was full. In fact Beadnell was a better alternative - not as crowded and a great base. I even ran from the village out to Seahouses and back on our final day. The Groupie and I then retraced my steps (and a little further) that afternoon. I slept bloody well that night.
You know I got all excited about the golf ball I found at Dunstanburgh Castle. Well, would you believe it, I found another one as we walked through Seahouses Golf Club. I intend using these lucky charms at Pype Hayes this afternoon. We will quickly learn whether they are indeed lucky or just like every other ball I have ever owned - doomed.
And of course, whilst we were busy holidaying, the country lost a Prime Minister. No need for much comment from me. I have made clear my opinion of the shitbag Johnson. I could even find some satisfaction in the line that the generally hopeless Keir Starmer deployed at PMQ's as the cascade of ministerial resignations went on - the first instance of sinking ships deserting the rat.
Now to go into my pre-golf mental regime - designed (badly) to avoid hitting the trees alongside the first tee. Om.
The weather looks drab as I write this, armed with my morning coffee made in the stylish new stove-top pot I bought in Berwick. We have been lucky with the weather here in Northumberland and it is supposedly going to clear up today. Destination - Bamburgh Castle.
We ate yesterday at the Craster Arms, next door to our apartment. The Groupie, after her slight disappointment at Lewis's on Saturday was delighted with a gargantuan piece of cod and excellent chunky chips. The Pig had an excellent burger, chips and a side of onion rings that were world-class. In my lifetime one of the greatest improvements has been the quality of pub food. Two pints of Beadnell Blonde helped the cause.
Just occasionally come days of wonder. Saturday was such a day. I ran for 5.5k and was thereby bathed in that ridiculous warmth of self-reighteousness that comes with even mild athletic endeavour. In the company of my favourite person we headed for Seahouses, a place which deserves the old-fashioned description of being jolly. We found a parking space and the pay and display ticket machine actually worked - often they don't for me. We then collected our tickets for the Billy Shiel's boat trip to the Farne Islands.
The BBC may be achingly woke but you have to admit that iPlayer is a magnificent resource. After our exertions each day here in Northumberland (of which more anon) the Groupie and I settle down to a bit of televisual culture.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan / A stately pleasure dome decree
Coleridge lived too early ever to have seen the stately pleasure dome decreed by the remarkable Lord Armstrong at Cragside but the poet's lambent words went searing through the Pig's pretentious mind as he walked from the car park to Cragside this morning. Don't get me wrong, the Pig loves this sort of stuff, that is to say both Coleridge's poetry and Armstrong's grandiosity.
The house itself is a higgledy-piggledy affair, remodelled and extended on several occasions by Armstrong as he rose from a law office to mechanical genius - yet another case (take my mate Walter Bagehot for example) of someone qualifying as a lawyer and deciding there was a better life elsewhere. If only, if only, muses the Pig.
The Coleridge lines get an outing in Citizen Kane of course. I don't know enough to say whether Armstrong died bereft like Kane, but he certainly died childless and a century plus later his creation is in the hands of the National Trust who do a grand job. Death and taxes - life's two great certainties.
Cragside - a brilliant and thought-provoking day out. No dining out today. We're having shop-bought pizzas and I've opened an insolent (vinous argot for cheap) rioja. Good times.
Back in the days of thunder when rugby clubs used to tour rioutously at Easter, the Aston Old Edwardian version always used to conclude with the End of Tour Supper back at the club. And the supper would be followed by a few awards (Most Pissed Person on Tour etc) and very brief speeches. Denis Walker (long since deceased) would bring the curtain down with a vote of thanks to our Tour Supremo, Alan Haynes, TD, JP. And every year Denis would finish with the line that this had been 'the worst bloody tour I've ever been on'. It was an affectionate jibe. I loved those tours - those days have gone, swallowed in the maw of modernism. Oh well, I was lucky to have been alive.
Last week under the brilliant stewardship of an old fellow rugby warrior, RM (under whose captaincy I played the best rugby of my undistinguished career) and the standing committee (they don't keep minutes or hold elections - too bloody right) the ever-burgeoning QMT golf tour ventured South-West to Tewkesbury. This was brilliant. On Wednesday we played at Puckrup Hall which transpired to be fabulous. At Puckrup in the Grand Match (edition one) Floyd House (it's a school thing) beat the Rest of the World 3.5 - 2.5. As ever, Floyd rule - God is in his heaven and all's well in the world. The Pig and his great mate Silverdog took an unexpected half from the ROW captain and the formidable TW. Days of thunder live.
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| 18th at Puckrup Hall |
The best bloody tour I've ever been on.
This time to Sinners Cafe in Berwick-upon-Tweed as a prelude to a meander around the town. This was cafe food at its basic and tastiest best with no pretensions or frills. This magical part of the world has not disappointed on the culinary front and we always knew that it would be scenically brilliant. I love it here.
Berwick bears the marks of the relative poverty that has settled on English townships in the face of those twin impostors - the internet and Covid. It is no earthly good the fortunate amongst us snobbishly bemoaning the surfeit of charity shops and empty properties if we do all our shopping online. I don't have an answer to this although I did buy myself a new stove-top coffee maker in Berwick today. One fish finger sarnie and a coffee maker and the Pig somehow convinces himself that he's done his bit.
Goodness but I slept well last night after all that running amd walking. No run today and relatively little walking. There's aways tomorrow.
As the Moody Blues put it, it's a question of balance. And Big Fat Pig is on the wrong side of the equation. We have been on holiday for four days now and I have been a good boy and been out running twice - including a tortuous 5K this morning. So far, so good. The problem is that the Pig cannot help himself when faced with a pub menu. I have already told you about the excellent fare at the Joiners Arms, and now we have to add the Market Tavern in Alnwick to the list of recommendations. Not so haute cuisine as the Joiners but none the worse for that. A truly gargantuan portion of ham, egg and chips and two pints of Alnwick Amber Ale. Stuffed.
The Joiners Arms, Newton-on-the-Sea, Northumberland. No apostrophe. This describes itself as a 'gastro pub', a self-delineation that I sometimes think can be a hostage to fortune. No such worries here. The food is superb. Chicken in a mushroom sauce for the Groupie, and a hearty fishfinger stotty with chips and a bowl of five bean soup for BFP. The Pig washed this down with a pint of Black Sheep Bitter.
A couple of events that, if they don't totally clear my mood of pessimism, do at least cheer me up a tad.
As you know my favourite axiom is that pop will eat itself and I have applied this tediously and often to Twenty20 cricket - you know what I mean, that 'speeded-up' version of beautiful old cricket wherein sides now take two hours to bowl twenty overs. What a crock. Well, anyway what should come riding over the horizon on a white charger other than the revenging knight of a fabulous test match. England conceded more than five hundred and fifty runs in the first innings yet somehow conspired still to defeat New Zealand on the back of a pyrotechnic innings from Johnny Bairstow. Quite brilliant. And, yes, I suppose I do have to concede that some of Bairstow's audacity may have been honed in limited overs cricket. That however is not the point.
Not quite so stratospheric but nonetheless welcome was the climax to the Canadian Open golf on Sunday. That is to say a championship played over seventy-two holes. Better still if you want assurance that golf's soul may just be rescuable, track down millionaire John Rahm's press conference before this week's U.S. Open. Modest, grateful and wise. Thankyou.
